


Maybe It Means Nothing (But I'm Afraid to Move)

by ViaLethe



Category: Margaret vs. Pauline (Song)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Multi, POV Female Character, Unrequited Love, Yuletide 2012, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:03:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViaLethe/pseuds/ViaLethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just fate, Margaret tells herself.  Just the way it'll always be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe It Means Nothing (But I'm Afraid to Move)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saintgil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintgil/gifts).



_**Tuesday** _

The Girl in White gets on at the Belmont stop again, spotless, polished. Pretty. She sways along with the train as it starts up, all effortless grace like she's one with the machine.

Margaret watches – she always watches everything, all of the time – trying to decide what story to assign the Girl tonight. Maybe the one where she's a bitchy trust-fund kid who got her car taken away by daddy, forcing her onto the trains with all the commoners.

But the Girl seems tired tonight, resting her head against the window after she sets down her things, the red-brown of her hair gleaming even under the harsh lighting. Margaret decides to be fair, and go with the theory that the Girl is a student taking a night class, on her way back home to a mansion on the lakeside.

She's yanked from her thoughts two stops later, when her coworker Janice pats her shoulder. “Night, Pegs. See you tomorrow.”

Though the mangled fingers of her left hand twitch, Margaret doesn't bother with corrections; Janice had an aunt Margaret-called-Peggy, making it hopeless. “Night,” she says softly, probably too soft for Janice to hear (she's hard of hearing after all her years in the cannery), but that never matters to a person like Janice, who goes on blithely with life in the assurance that everyone likes her, and it's not her problem if they don't. 

Sometimes Margaret wishes she could be more like Janice. Other times she's scared of turning into her, of being fifty years old and still working the factories, going home to a tiny apartment with nobody for company but an old cat.

The Girl in White rouses herself enough to glide off the train a stop later, shining in the station lights like an angel, but Margaret hardly notices, because The Dark God always gets on at that same stop, and there he is, right on cue.

He's the most handsome thing she's ever seen in real life – dark hair with just a bit of a curl to it, beautiful cheekbones, and dimples when he grins. She's sure he must be just as perfect on the inside, though so far she hasn't managed to do anything more than smile awkwardly when he catches her staring.

He catches her again tonight, but then something totally unexpected happens: he grins at her, showing off those perfect dimples, and she smiles back before dropping her eyes, her heart pounding through her chest and her cheeks all hot.

She gets off the Blue Line three stops further down, regretting it like she does every night, until she hears a single word.

“Bye.”

He smiles at her again through the windows between them before the train pulls away, and she walks home through the late summer chill warmed all the way through by the memory.

_**The next week** _

It's been a long week at the gallery – long, but rewarding. Or at least Pauline is certain it will be when the exhibit opens next month. Every instinct tells her this is the one, the artist who'll make her little gallery the latest hotspot of the city's arts world, and her instincts are never wrong.

Still, she is terribly exhausted, comforting herself as she boards the train with the thought of her cozy apartment waiting, the crisp clean sheets and down comforter on her bed. And since Lucia had been in to clean and do laundry today, she'd have made dinner for Pauline too. Such a lovely thought.

The train seems more crowded than usual tonight, forcing Pauline out of her typical isolation and into a seat next to another girl who seems vaguely familiar, the type of person you see every day but never quite manage to fix their face in your mind. Not that the girl doesn't seem nice enough, smiling shyly and moving her bag out of the way when Pauline sits down with all her things in tow, but all Pauline really wants now is to get home.

She's so tired she nearly falls asleep with her head on the other girl's shoulder, waking only just in time for her stop when her shoulder is gently shaken. She's in such a hurry she doesn't even pause to wonder how her seatmate guessed her stop; in such a hurry that she turns oddly clumsy, bumps into someone getting on the train, and looks up into the most stunning pair of dark eyes she's ever seen.

“Be careful there,” he says with a smile, holding her steady, and all her blood tingles as the doors close between them.

She doesn't miss her cashmere cardigan until she's nearly all the way home.

***

Margaret's day had been lonely; with Janice out sick (the same cough that Margaret's had for months, but Margaret's younger, she can take it better) she hasn't even got anybody to ride home with, but that all changes when the Girl in White chooses to sit next to her, even smiling and giving a soft 'thanks' when Margaret makes room for her things.

When the Girl's cinnamon head drops lower and lower until it rests on her shoulder, Margaret hardly dares to breathe; she can smell the spicy scent of her shampoo, and a hint of what she's sure is really expensive perfume.

The Girl's in white again, like always; white dress, white sweater on the seat beside her, black shoes shining up from the floor. Margaret drinks it all in like water in the desert, doesn't miss a detail.

She's really careful, when she touches the Girl's shoulder to wake her up just before the right stop, to use her right hand, and makes sure not to touch the fabric of her dress, afraid of leaving smudges behind.

The Girl doesn't say thanks, or goodbye, but Margaret forgives that; what she's gotten tonight is already more than enough.

It only gets better when Margaret gets up at her own stop and her Dark God speaks to her again.

“Hey, is this your sweater?”

She knows right away who it really belongs to, of course, and she feels guilty taking it from his hands, but it seems right in some way, like a gift to her from both of them, and how could she say no to that?

She walks home snuggled in it, breathing in the perfume still clinging to it; it's the nicest thing she's ever had.

_**Two weeks after that** _

Margaret's walking down the street, savoring the fact that it's Saturday and that means for once, she has nothing to do but walk down the street for a cup of cocoa, when it happens.

She sees her first – the Girl in White, wearing a long white coat that hugs her slim hips as she walks, smiling and looking up adoringly at the guy who's got his arm wrapped around her-

Margaret almost walks into a trashcan at that point, saving herself with her damaged hand, hardly noticing the fiery pain that shoots up, because the guy with the Girl is her Dark God.

They enter the cafe, arm-in-arm, and she hears her teeth lock together, she tightens her jaw so hard.

She might have known, she thinks, watching them through the window, sitting at a table made for two, sipping coffee. They're perfectly matched, a smart, elegant set she couldn't ever be part of.

She goes into the cafe anyway – that cocoa is her one weekly treat, and she's not willing to miss out, even when her stomach is churning with rage and humiliation and sadness, all mixed up in a volcano she's not sure she can keep swallowing down.

At the counter, waiting for her name to be called (Marge? Maggie? They always manage to get it wrong, somehow), she smells something spicy and familiar above the pervasive coffee, and winces as the Girl in White brushes by her shoulder, reaching for some sugar.

“Sorry,” the girl says, putting a gentle hand to Margaret's arm. “That's a nice sweater,” she continues, offering up a friendly smile. “I used to have one just like it.”

Margaret waits, tense, for what must come next – the accusation of theft, the inevitable horrible scene – and barely manages to choke out, “Thanks,” in a harsh, unnatural voice.

But nothing happens, nothing at all – the Girl just smiles at her again, her face totally blank of any recognition, and turns to go back to her table without another glance. 

And just like that, it's all over. Just fate, Margaret tells herself. Just the way it'll always be.


End file.
